


Rush, Slam, Crash

by Moit



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Angst, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moit/pseuds/Moit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zach gets Chris hooked on coke. It's his fault. Only, it's not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Zach

**Author's Note:**

> Bb's first Pinto! All the blame can be directed to 1lostone (she also deserves thanks for the fantastic beta). Now that I've crowbar-ed myself out of Teen Wolf, I've fallen in love with ZQ and Princess Whitelaw. What a wonderful world it is. 
> 
> This fic contains heavy drug use (cocaine), so serious warning there. Tread lightly, folks.

It’s Zach’s fault.

 

He's the one who introduced Chris to the Hollywood lifestyle, as ridiculous as that sounds. Chris's parents did an admirable job keeping him away from all that, and Zach undid their work in a single night.

 

It seemed innocent—everyone did—does it. 

 

They got to the party within minutes of one another. Zach shouted a greeting, clapped Chris on the back, and handed him a beer. Innocent. 

 

It wasn't Zach’s fault that Chris saw him and Zoe in the bedroom, a rolled-up dollar bill passed between them. They hadn't shut the door all the way, and Zoe stood straight up as she inhaled.

 

"Either come in and shut the door or get out." Her tone was not altogether pleasant, but Chris walked in anyway. He glanced from the carefully laid lines on the dresser to the inscrutable look on Zach’s face. 

 

“Do you want a bump?” 

 

Shaking his head, Chris leaned against the far wall. He watched them with keen eyes. 

 

Ignoring their visitor, Zach leaned forward. He closed one nostril with his thumb and inhaled a line with the other. 

 

Time to party. 

 

“You want to dance?” 

 

Chris started when he realized Zach was talking to him. “Me?” 

 

Zach quirked an eyebrow. “No, your mother. Let’s see what you’ve got, Pine.” 

 

They headed back out to the party without Zoe. Grabbing a couple of beers, Zach handed Chris another and slung an arm over his shoulder. They pressed close to one another with the beat of the music thrumming through them. Zach leaned his forehead against Chris’s as he felt his heartrate pick up. He knew his pupils would be dilated, making his already dark eyes look black. His lashes fluttered shut, and Zach fitted his free hand in the small of Chris’s back as their hips swayed to the melody. 

 

The next time Zach went into the bedroom, Chris followed. Zach should have stopped him, but that would have meant giving up the warmth of Chris’s fingers twisted between his own. Zach never denied he was a selfish man. 

This time, he didn’t ask. He laid out one line for himself, since Zoe wasn’t there—but Chris, the meek puppy in the corner, cleared his throat. 

 

“I want one.” 

 

Again, Zach quirked an eyebrow. “A bump. I’m not giving you a line.” 

 

Chris shrugged. It didn’t matter. 

 

Zach tapped one careful hill of white powder onto the flat of his thumb and held it out. Chris held his gaze until he lowered his eyes and inhaled.  

 

“You good?” 

 

Chris sniffed. He scrunched up his nose in a way that Zach found adorably endearing. “Yeah.” 

 

Smirking, Zach looked back down at the dresser. 

 

*

 

After that, Chris became a constant at Zach’s side during parties. Every trip Zach took to a bedroom, Chris was there, wide puppy eyes begging for his turn. And Zach always indulged him. 

 

Eventually, it was Chris disappearing to the bedroom. Sometimes Zach went, sometimes other people went, and most concerning, sometimes Chris went alone. 

 

Zach’s heart clenched in his chest the first time he saw Chris with a nosebleed. 

 

“It’s nothing.” Chris wiped at his face, but only managed to smear the blood. 

 

Scoffing, Zach handed him a tissue. “You need to lay off the blow, dude.” 

 

“I’m fine.” 

 

*

 

Zach found out about it from TM fucking Z of all places. Usually, he avoided that stuff like the plague, but when he logged on to check his email, there it was, staring him in the face.  

 

Star Trek’s  _ Captain Kirk, AKA Chris Pine, collapsed at a Los Angeles restaurant Tuesday night. The actor was rushed to an area hospital, and sources close to Chris say his condition is stable. _

 

Email forgotten, Zach fumbled for his phone and dialed Chris’s number. His heart pounded as the call went straight to voicemail. It had to be something else. There was no way—except Zach knew. Every time they saw each other lately, Chris looked worse. 

 

“ _ Dammit _ , Chris.” 

 

He dialed Katie, and she answered on the third ring. 

 

“I just saw the news—I had no idea—is he okay?” 

 

“How much did you hear?” Katie’s voice was cryptic. 

 

Zach licked his lips. He knew the truth behind that question. “Just that he collapsed. Can I come see him?”

 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Zach. He’s not . . . he’s not himself right now.” 

 

“Please.” 

 

She let out a put-upon sigh, but Katie gave him the name of an exclusive LA rehab center. 

 

*

 

Zach steps into the lobby of a building that looks more like a hotel than a hospital, and all he can think is that he did this to his friend. Jesus, he did this to  _ Chris.  _ His knees feel like they want to give out as he steps out of the car, and it takes a minute to steady himself before he can walk into the building. 

 

The girl at the reception desk greets him with a bright smile.   

 

“I’m here to see Christopher Pine,” he says in a low voice as though someone might be lurking in the deserted lobby and hear him. With shaking hands, he pockets his keys. 

 

“What’s your name, please?” 

 

“Zachary Quinto.” 

 

As the receptionist fiddles with the computer, Zach worries that he might not be on the approved list. 

 

Finally, the girl prints out a visitor pass that she instructs him to stick to the front of his shirt. “Mr. Pine is on the fifth floor, room number 12.” She presses a button and the security doors to her right buzz open. 

 

“Thanks.” Zach gives her a relieved smile and heads towards the elevator. 

 

Floor five is made up of four suites, each with their own locked door and attendant standing guard, no doubt for the patients’ protection. Zach wonders idly if Chris has any roommates. 

 

Suite four’s attendant, a sturdy-looking young man, reads over Zach’s badge  _ and _ checks his driver’s license before he opens the door. Then he leads Zach to another locked door with the number 12 on it. 

 

_ Jesus _ , Zach thinks,  _ am I in a prison or a hospital? _

 

Behind the door, Chris’s room isn’t nearly as dark or depressing as Zach had expected. The big picture window lets in a lot of natural light, and if it wasn’t for the locks and the guards, Zach might think they were at the Four Seasons. 

 

Then he sees Chris lying in the bed looking tiny and frail and Zach’s heart falls through his stomach. Chris’s eyes are sunken, with dark circles beneath the blue depths. His lean frame looks atrophied beneath the sheets, and Zach wants to cry. He should have said something. Stopped Chris from using too much. He saw this coming, but refused to believe that Chris,  _ of all people _ , would end up in a place like this.  _ It’s just a little blow _ , he remembers himself saying. Rationalizing it. 

 

Really, he should have never offered him that first bump. 

 

“Hey, buddy,” Chris says, but the weak smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

 

“Hey.” Zach’s reply is softer, like harsh words will cut Chris down in his battered state. He drags a chair over to the bed and sits down. His hand hovers over Chris’s arm like he wants to touch but decides not to at the last minute. Defeated, he drops his hand to his own lap. “How are you feeling?” 

 

“I’m okay. They’ve got me—“ He pauses, and Zach knows he’s avoiding the word  _ dope _ “—on something to take the edge off. Mostly, I’m just tired.” 

 

Zach nods. What else is there to say? “I’m sorry.” 

 

“For what?” Chris looks genuinely confused. “You tried to get me to slow down.” 

 

“Yeah, but I didn’t have to offer you that first bump.” 

 

“And I didn’t have to take it.” 

 

But the words do nothing to assuage the guilt Zach is feeling. He stares at his lap wishing there was anything he could do, wishing that he could reverse the roles that they’re playing so that it could be him in that bed. Chris doesn’t deserve this. 

 

Zach tries to speak again, but his throat closes and the words get stuck. 

 

Chris reaches out his hand and rubs his thumb against the crease between Zach’s eyebrows. “Stop that. It will give you premature wrinkles.” 

 

Mindful of his friend’s delicate state, Zach wraps his fingers around Chris’s wrist and pulls his hand away. He pauses to press a kiss to the pale skin Chris’s knuckles. “I thought I’d lost you. I read it on—I read it on the Internet, and I called Katie.  I had no idea.”  _ I had no idea things were this bad _ . 

 

“Guess I forgot to change my Facebook status.” Chris uses his free hand to scratch at the stubble on his cheek, but he’s smiling. He twists out of Zach’s loose grip and folds their fingers together. 

  
“Such a technophobe, Christopher.” Heaving a sigh, Zach folds forward until he can lay his head on Chris’s stomach. He hears the steady  _ thump thump _ of his friend’s heart and thinks maybe, they’ll be okay.  


	2. Chris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris's side of the story. 
> 
> Beta by the lovely 1lostone. *squishes* She wanted more about Chris's high and his withdrawal, so you can thank her for that.

Chris would be lying if he said it wasn’t fun, at least in the beginning.

 

Zach rolled into the party, all suave and dark eyebrows. Like every other time, Chris felt like the sun had just come out from behind the clouds. Like Kirk and Spock, they were two sides of the same coin, Chris and Zach. Zach was confident and commanded the room, while Chris preferred to sit back and watch, an easy smile on his face. 

 

Chris wasn’t frightened when he saw Zoe and Zach in that bedroom. He wasn’t even surprised. At first, the thought they were sharing a joint. Chris had never had any interest in that either, but he always felt good around his friends. Safe. 

 

Like he was losing his virginity to Vanessa Hawkins in tenth grade all over again, his mind supplied a helpfully obvious commentary. 

 

_ They’re doing cocaine. Those are lines of coke. _

 

Chris admired the way Zach managed to make doing drugs look elegant. He watched with wide eyes as Zach held the dollar bill tube to his nose and sucked up one of the lines. 

 

Inhaling deeply to clear his nostrils, Zach tipped his head back and brushed the hair out of his face. “You want to dance?” 

 

The question caught Chris off guard. He couldn't tell if Zach was trying to hustle him out of the room or if he really wanted to dance. Chris chose to believe the latter. Having Zach’s full attention was like sunbathing naked; you might get burnt, but it was worth it. 

 

He took the beer Zach offered; alcohol was no stranger. He hated to admit it, but he often found liquid courage at the bottom of a bottle. 

 

The tide that was Zachary Quinto carried him along the space crowded with people. 

 

The longer they danced, the closer Zach pulled their bodies together. Chris could tell Zach was high. Why else would he hold Chris so tight? 

 

So when Zach pulled him back into the bedroom, Chris went willingly, but for an entirely different reason. He had to mask his disappointment when Zach began to lay out another line. But as Chris schooled his features, an idea began to form. The words jumped out of his mouth before the thought was even realized. 

 

“I want one.” 

 

He expected Zach to tell him no—chastise him for even asking. He never expected Zach to offer him a bump. Still, he couldn’t turn away that kind of intimacy. 

 

Holding Zach’s eyes, he took the hit. It burned. 

 

Having never snorted anything before—he didn’t even like nasal spray—Chris congratulated himself on doing it without sneezing all over Zach. 

 

They went back to the living room to dance some more. Wrapped in Zach’s arms, Chris felt safe. Even as the coke began to take him higher and his heart started to race, Zach was there, anchoring him to the ground. Like a ship without a rudder, , Chris floated valiantly as Zach’s waves crashed against him again and again. 

 

*

 

Chris felt like they had made a connection that night, he and Zach. But the next day, they went back to what they’d always been—good friends. And while Chris was okay with that, he wanted more. 

 

At the next party, Chris planted himself at Zach’s side and stayed there. He would prove how badly he wanted him, wanted  _ them. _

 

When Zach went into the bedroom, Chris went, too. 

 

He knew what he was getting into this time around, but pretty soon it became too much. 

 

Doing blow because he wanted to be close to Zach turned into doing blow because he couldn’t help himself. He knew he was in for it the first time he bought his own eight-ball. 

 

The next time he saw Zach, the other man merely raised an eyebrow at the sight of Chris having his own stash. 

 

“Dangerous game you’re playing, Christopher.” 

 

The comment stung. He was just as capable at handling this as anyone else—just as capable as  _ Zach. _

 

Determined to prove himself, Chris laid out two precise lines like an expert. Like a junkie. At least the coke made his heart stop hurting. 

 

*

 

The nosebleeds scared him almost badly enough to make him quit, but he couldn’t. He tried to slow down, and that was the best he could do. Part of him hoped that Zach would swoop in like the white knight that Chris so badly needed, but the best he got was a tissue. A token from the lady to her knight on the day of the joust. 

 

The cotton turned crimson with Chris’s blood. It looked so much brighter than the stuff they painted him with on set. Disconnected, he stared at the blood-stained tissue in his hand like it all belonged to someone else. 

 

When he looked up, Zach was gone. 

 

*

 

Snorting coke stopped being something he  _ did _ and became something he  _ was _ . While some people would wake up in the morning and smoke a cigarette, Chris would wake up and do a bump. He kept it under wraps the best he could, but it got to the point where he couldn’t leave the house without his stash. 

 

At dinner with Katie one night, the itch got so bad that Chris had to excuse himself so he could do a bump in the bathroom. The sound of the inhale was loud and obvious against the tile walls. 

 

His nose itched like crazy when he got back to the table. In spite of the zen-like feeling as his body prepared for liftoff, Chris couldn’t stop himself from rubbing his nose. 

 

The sounds around him became sharper; silverware clinking against glass coalesced into a melody to accompany the rhythm of his heartbeat. His pulse raced as his brain told him the music was for him. He walked through the restaurant like everyone in the room was cheering him on. Like this was his party. 

 

Katie gave him a concerned look. “Chris, are you bleeding? You are.” 

 

He barely registered the warm trickle, but his fingertips came away bloody. The world tilted, and the next thing he knew, he was strapped to a gurney as the sound of unfamiliar voices washed over him. 

 

Someone shined a light in his eyes, and he jerked away with a grimace.  

 

“Chris, can you tell me how old you are?” 

 

His mind supplied  _ thirty-one _ , but his mouth couldn’t get past  _ th _ . A machine began to scream in his left ear, and he lost consciousness. 

 

When he woke again, he was more aware of his surroundings. He was in a private room that looked like a hotel, except for the hospital equipment and IV hooked up to his left arm. 

 

Fucking rehab. 

 

Sighing, Chris dropped his head back to the pillow. 

 

*

 

Doctors and nurses flowed in and out of his room with a frequency that almost made Chris’s head spin. 

 

Unlike a heroin withdrawal, Chris wasn’t hunched over a tub puking his guts out, but he still felt like he wanted to die. The doctors had explained repeatedly that the depression would hit hard, and they weren’t kidding. 

 

Chris hardly wanted to open his eyes. All he wanted in the word, more than food, more than air, was another bump. Just one more. One more and he’d be fine. He’d let go. 

 

Rationally, he knew that wasn’t happening. 

 

Sometimes, he cried. He screamed and sobbed and begged. One of the nurses threatened to strap him to the bed after he threw a cup at her. He was more compliant after that. 

 

After a few days, the depression began to lift, but the anxiety remained under his skin like an itch that he couldn’t scratch. Logically, he knew he was sullen and moody, and he knew it was the withdrawal, but he couldn’t help himself. Emotionally, everything hurt. Looking out the window made him miss his life, his freedom. He couldn’t watch TV because it made him think of acting, and even eating held no pleasure. Since he started on the drugs, eating hadn’t appealed to him, anyway. The threat of a feeding tube was the only reason he lifted a heavy hand to shovel Jell-O into his mouth. 

 

In spite of that, the worst part wasn’t withdrawal—it was seeing the looks of disappointment and worry on the faces of his family. He was authorized phone calls from his agent and publicist—the people who were responsible for keeping his life on track because he couldn’t seem to do it himself. He just wanted to curl up and wallow in his misery, but no one was willing to let him do that, especially not the therapist he had to see once a day. 

 

“It’s early in the healing process, yet, Chris, but do you think you’re up for a visitor?” 

 

At that, he perked up. 

 

“Your friend, Zachary, perhaps?” 

 

Chris’s expression shuttered. They’d talked about Zach a lot—more than Chris would have liked—and the thought of seeing him . . . of Zach seeing Chris like this . . . “I don’t know. You don’t know Zach. He’ll probably . . . ”  _ He’ll probably berate me for being such a fucking idiot _ . 

 

*

 

Chris certainly wasn’t expecting to see Zach the following day. He’d only just awoken from his nap when the door opened. 

 

He thought it might be his mother, the doctor . . . anyone but Zach. 

 

Regret floods Chris’s body. He hasn’t showered yet today, his hair is surely a mess, and he knows he looks like what he is: an emaciated junkie in a hospital bed. Self-consciously, he pulls the edges of his cardigan together over his chest. Zach didn’t want him before. He certainly won’t want him  _ now _ . 

 

And there’s Zach: beautiful as always. He’s dressed casual in shorts and flip-flops and his glasses, but the sight of him never fails to send Chris’s heart racing. He’s just glad he’s not hooked up to a monitor today. Those whiskey eyes roam Chris’s body, cataloguing and filing. Chris fights the urge to fidget. 

 

He settles for a neutral greeting that Zach returns. Things have never been this awkward between them. 

 

When Zach apologizes, Chris doesn’t know how to take it. 

 

Finally, he can’t help himself. He smoothes out the wrinkle between Zach’s eyebrows. It’s too much to watch Zach blame himself for Chris’s fuck-up. 

 

He swears his heart skips a beat when Zach kisses his hand. All his attention centers on  _ not _ hyperventilating. It gets even worse when Zach lays his head on Chris’s stomach. 

 

Deep, even breaths like his therapist taught him.

  
Tamping down on the sigh that wants to escape his throat, Chris allows himself to indulge in one urge. He slides his fingers through Zach’s dark, silky locks. Unbelievably, Zach makes a noise of pleasure and snuggles closer. 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next bit is about Chris's rehab, therapy, and recovery. I should have it up within the next couple of hours. 
> 
> I'm on Tumblr [@moitmiller](http://moitmiller.tumblr.com) if you want to come say hi!


	3. Rehab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris gets some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the thank-yous to 1lostone and Lockea for chewing over this fic with me for _hours_. Lockea was especially helpful with the chapter because I know nothing about therapy, and she ensured that the therapist wasn't judging Chris for his decisions.

For three months, Chris stayed in rehab. His life became a routine that seemed almost normal. Group three times a day, one-on-one once a week, and a blur of meals and that one hour in the day when his family could visit.

 

Zach showed up every Monday like clockwork. He only missed one day, and that was because Noah picked up a stomach bug at the dog park and had to be taken to the vet.

 

After the first couple of visits, Chris stopped denying how much he looked forward to Zach’s visits. During the week, he was content to shuffle to therapy in his slippers, but on Mondays, he showered, shaved, and styled his hair. His therapist had begun referring to it as “Zachday.”

 

They didn’t do much other than talk and play cards. Zach didn’t ask how treatment was going, and Chris didn’t volunteer anything. He spent enough time talking to his therapist about it all.

 

“So, two weeks, huh?” Zach laid down the cards in his hand. He glanced up as Katie breezed into the room. “Rummy.”

 

After looking over the cards, Chris picked them up and began to shuffle the deck. “Yep. Then I’m home free.”  _ Only two more Mondays _ , he thought sadly.

 

Katie came to a stop next to the table. “I meant to tell you that I took off work that day, so I’ll be here to pick you up.”

 

Chris opened his mouth to reply, but Zach beat him to the punch.

 

“Chris and I already talked about it, and I’m going to pick him up.”

 

Though Katie didn’t outright despise Zach, she still blamed him for Chris’s condition. She made it a point to visit Chris more Mondays than not, as if he needed a chaperone to spend time with Zach. Often, Chris would find some reason for he and Zach to be alone, even if it meant lying to his sister.

 

Exhaling loudly through her nose, Katie fixed Zach with a firm stare. “Thank you for the offer, Zachary, but I think Chris should be with  _ family _ that day.”

 

“Actually--” Chris started, but Zach cut him off again.

 

“You don’t think he considers me family? How many of his other friends have been here  _ every week _ ?”

 

Listening to these two talk over him was nothing new; Chris felt comfortable letting Zach direct the interviews, and when he was younger, Katie would pull him along like the baby brother he was, but this time he felt his chest tighten, and his breathing starting coming in rapid, shallow bursts.

 

“Guys,” he wheezed out. Knuckles turning white, his hands tightened on the arms of his chair.

 

He couldn’t stop this, couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop the air from being sucked out of the room. It felt like he was on a runaway train with no breaks and he couldn’t  _ breathe _ .

 

All he could hear was the sound of their voices getting louder. Zach was up out of his chair, invading Katie’s space. She held her ground and fired right back.

 

And Chris felt himself getting smaller and smaller. He just wanted to curl in a ball and close his eyes until it was over.

 

It wasn’t until Chris felt a hand on his shoulder that he realized they were finished, and he was crying. Katie was kneeling in front of him directing him to take long, slow breaths with her.

 

“That’s it, Chris. Deep breaths with me. In, two, three, out, two, three, four, five.”

 

Slowly, his mind cleared. “I’m--I’m good.” He batted her hands away. He needed space.

 

Taking a deeper breath than Katie had been coaching him into, Chris stood up and walked toward the window. This was one of the times he wished he could just push himself through the glass and fall, free, to the ground. His therapist would call that thought suicidal; Chris thought of it as liberating. He had those thoughts sometimes, like when they were pushing through a crowd of people just to get to the car. He would think about how easy it would be to just lay down on the ground and let them tear him limb from limb. He wasn’t suicidal, really, just desperate for some space.  

 

He sighed. “Could you just . . . leave us alone?”

 

One of the chairs scraped across the floor. “Yeah,” Zach said. “I should get home and let the dogs out, anyway.”

 

Alarmed, Chris spun around. “I was talking to Katie.”

 

Both Zach and Katie looked surprised by the admission.

 

“I’m sorry, but I want Zach to pick me up. We talked about it already. It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you and Mom and Dad have done for me, but . . . ”

 

Katie held up a hand. “I get it. I’ll just leave you to it, then.” She gathered up her purse and left the room without so much as a goodbye. Chris could tell she was still upset, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that now.

 

Shaking, Chris dropped down into another chair.

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to go?”

 

Chris felt like he was on the verge of tears. “Stay,” he said. “Please?”

 

“Of course.” Zach picked up the deck of cards and began to shuffle. “Actually, I think it’s your deal.”

 

*

 

Curling his long legs to his chest, Chris made himself comfortable in the chair across from Paula. She opened the session with the usual questions.  _ How are you feeling today? How was the week? Did Zach come to visit yesterday? _

 

Chris traced the pattern of his lounge pants with one finger. “He and Katie got into a fight over who is going to pick me up when I get out of here. I almost had a panic attack.”

 

“How did you handle it?”

 

“Katie pulled me out of it. She got in my face and started coaching me through some deep breathing. I asked her to leave after I calmed down, though. I didn’t want her there.” Chris let out a breath and met Paula’s eyes. “I felt like she was ruining the time I had with Zach.”

 

“Have you tried talking to her about this? Telling her that you want to spend time alone with Zach? Setting those boundaries.”

 

“She’d probably freak out.”

 

Paula leaned back in her chair. “But if you don’t set boundaries . . . ”

 

“Then I’m not taking care of myself,” Chris parroted.

 

“Let’s talk about your grooming.”

 

_ Let’s not _ , Chris wanted to say.

 

“You’ve been doing really well lately, but we’ve talked about the importance of getting dressed and combing your hair in the morning. Not just on Mondays. Is there a reason you didn't feel like getting dressed today?”

 

Embarrassed, Chris fingered the Scottish Terrier print. “They remind me of Noah.” 

 

“That must be comforting.”

 

“It is.” Chris’s heart swelled as he thought of wrestling around on Zach’s living room floor with the big, shaggy dog.

 

“Did yesterday’s fight have anything to do with why you didn’t feel like getting dressed today?” 

 

“Kind of. I don’t think I’m worth being fought over.” 

 

“Why do you think you’re not worth being fought over?” 

 

Avoiding her eyes was easier than answering. Chris hated questions that cut him to the quick like this. 

 

“Chris? I’ll wait.” 

 

“Being famous is hard,” he said finally. “My parents talked to me about it, but I never really knew what they were talking about until it happened to me. Until I felt it. And I feel like such a douche saying that. Who wouldn’t want to be flown all over the world to do promo on their billion-dollar film with their best friends? It just makes everything so . . . hard.” 

 

“Your fans care for you, surely. What about that makes you feel like you’re not worth being cared for?” Trust Paula to stay on topic. 

 

“The sacrifice.” Chris licked his lips. “I sacrifice my time and my . . . like, my public persona? Does that make sense? It’s like I give myself over to these people and I don’t have time to do so much as get my own coffee, so when it’s left up to me, it’s almost like I don’t remember how to get dressed or fix my hair without help.” 

 

“Would you say that you don’t  _ want _ or don’t  _ need _ to get dressed in the morning? Fix your hair?” 

 

“A little of both, I guess. Like when I’m here, I feel like I don’t need to, so I don’t want to. When Zach comes, I feel like I need to.” 

 

“Do you think that Zach would feel the need to get dressed only because he was seeing you?”

 

“No.” Chris let out a laugh. “Zach practically doesn’t leave the house without gel in his hair. I think the most casual he gets his flip flops and sweatpants to walk the dog, but if he’s going for so much as a coffee, he puts himself together.”

 

“Does he do this for someone else?”

 

“For the paps? Oh, no. Definitely not. Zach is the kind of guy who wants to look effortlessly put together. And it’s not about the paps. That’s just who he is.”

 

“And is Zach enough just being himself?”

 

Chris couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. “Zach’s great.”  

 

“Is Zach worth taking care of?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Paula leaned forward. “Then why wouldn’t you be?”

 

As her words sank in, Chris chewed his bottom lip. He hadn’t known where this was going, but now he sees it all-too-clearly.

 

*

 

Packing his bags and leaving behind the people and space he’d come to think of as home hurt, but the sight of Zach standing in the lobby helped ease the pain.

 

“Ready?”

 

Chris glances back at his therapist one last time. She’d given him a referral to someone closer to home, someone he will continue to see on a regular basis. “Yeah, I am.”

 

They step out into the sunlight, and Chris slides his sunglasses up his nose. He is a free man for the first time in three months. And he is clean. Therapy taught him that he is enough without coke, without Zach. He is enough just being Chris.

 

He doesn’t realize how much he missed being home until they walk through the front door. Chris piles his bags next to the stairs, kicks off his shoes, and collapses face-first on the couch.

 

“My couch!” He groans into a throw pillow. “I missed you so much.”

 

Zach clears his throat. “Should I leave you two alone?”

 

Chris flops onto his back. “Sorry, I’m just so glad to be back home.”

 

“I’ll leave you to it, then.”

 

“You don’t--we should talk. Please.”

 

“Here?” Zach raises an eyebrow. “Now? I don’t mean to sound rigid, but you just got back.”

 

“I think now is actually the best time. It’s part of the reason why I asked you to drive me home today.”

 

Uncertainty clouding his features, Zach nudges Chris’s legs over and sits down next to him.

 

“Part of my rehabilitation was working through the reasons why I felt like I needed to turn to drugs. It was . . . part of it was because of you, but not for the reasons you think.” Chris pulls himself upright and tucks his feet beneath him. He’d practiced this for months, said the words to his therapist countless times. He’s ready to do this. He can do this. “I had the biggest crush on you when we were filming Trek. When I saw you at that party, I just wanted to be close to you. You were doing coke, so that’s what I wanted. I couldn’t be  _ with _ you, so I wanted to be  _ like _ you.”

 

Zach’s face remained serious. He betrayed nothing, so Chris plowed on.

 

“This wasn’t your fault. I want you to know that. I’m the one who took the first bump, and I’m the one who kept going back for more. You might be able to use coke casually, but I can’t. I let myself get in too deep, and I got burned.”

 

“That’s a lot to process.”

 

“I know. I’m sorry. I don’t expect any kind of an answer. I’ve had months to think about this, and I’m just springing this all on you.”

 

“You know I’m the last person to judge anyone’s sexuality and whether or not they’re open about it, but you had a crush on me? I didn’t know you even liked men, let alone—”

 

“I don’t,” Chris interjected. “Like men. It’s kind of . . . kind of just you?” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I can’t really explain it.”

 

“I guess I’m just surprised you never told me.”

 

“Because I’m sure you’ve never had straight guys proposition you before.” Chris forces himself to laugh. “It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t going to do that to you, and I certainly didn’t want to put that kind of strain on our friendship.”

 

“Except it does matter. Because we’re here, now, and we’re talking about this. Maybe if you would have said something, you would have found out that I was too chickenshit to make a move. What kind of closeted gay guy hits on his straight friend? We’re even, Chris. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

 

Something warm blossoms in Chris’s chest. He doesn’t want to let himself hope, but Zach’s reply isn’t exactly a no. “So, was that past tense, or . . . ”

 

“Christopher.” The corner of Zach’s lip twitches into a smile. “Get over here.”

 

Like an overeager puppy, Chris twists his body so that his head is in Zach’s lap. He lets out an audible sigh as long fingers slip through his hair. Really, this is all he needed.

  
“I don’t know what happens next, Chris, but I’ll help you figure it out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it! I really hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> The next fic I'm working on is _seriously dark_ like badwrong and stuff. I'll try to throw some Pinto fluff in the middle there to off-set it. 
> 
> I'm on Tumblr @moitmiller if you want to come chat about Zach's eyebrows or why the hell Chris never wears socks. xx
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank so much for reading! This started out as 1,500 words, and 1lostone said, "Great! Now can you do it from Chris's perspective?" So that comes in part 2. The next two parts will be up just as soon as I get them back from her.


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